“Please don’t do that. Please. I need to get home. My sister, she’s fifteen . . . I need to get to her. I don’t know what to do. It’s my fault. Please. Don’t you have a sister?”
He shakes his head, back and forth, bobbing like one of those dashboard dog toys. “I don’t need to have a sister to understand that you are having a very bad time.”
“Then you won’t cancel? Please, I’ll tip you. I have cash.”
Five thousand in two-hundred-rand notes. “You’ll make it up to me,” Henk had said, pressing it into her hand as she scrambled to get dressed. He offered to drive her, but that’s a boundary she doesn’t ever want to cross.
“Okay,” the driver says. “But I expect you to act better in my car.”
“Thank you. Thanks. Really. I can’t, enough.” She’s sobbing outright. Kindness will do that.
He hands her half a Kit Kat over his shoulder as he pulls back onto the highway.
“Here. The sugar will help.”
11
11
Angelo lights the candles at the kitchen counter. Peggy is leaning on her elbows, lips parted. The light flickers over her perfect face. He sets down a plate of lasagna in front of her. He’ll probably end up eating that too. There’s a single red rose in a vase. He’s using the good wineglasses he bought, because he’s taking care of himself. More order in his life and his headspace. Posture is key. Dressing well. Cleaning your room. Buying nice wineglasses for you, and your love. Pretty clothes too. He flushes with pleasure at how beautiful she looks in the green dress.
“How was your day, my darling?” Peggy says, looking at him adoringly. He doesn’t even care that the lip sync is slightly off.
“It was tough.” He pours himself a glass of wine, tilts the glass toward her. “I’m ready to kill Mr. Thompson. He can’t manage his way out of a paper bag, and he’s telling me how to log the data? He’s a pompous ass.”
“How are you feeling about that?”
“Frustrated. I feel really, really frustrated. And angry. I mean, what the hell. It’s not fair. And he gets probably four times my salary. I should get paid more for having to put up with his bullshit.”
“I understand how you feel, my darling.”
“Thank you, Peggy. You always do.”
“How was your day, my darling?”
12
12
Lockdown. She disconnects her number. So does her mom, and Chantal. Too late, when all their information was already out there. Doxxed, she learns, is the term. Zukiswa, geek that she is, explains it to her. She says it’s not that difficult to do a reverse audio search, match the particularities of your tone. Once they figured out the origin of her accent, it wasn’t that hard.